Funeral Mute
by Miss Annabel Lenore Ragg
Summary: After the ill-fated night in the bake-house, Tobias escapes and attempts to put as much distance as possible between himself and that place of death, only to wind up at the Undertaker's funeral parlour.
1. Chapter the First

**A/N: **Greetings and welcome to installment the first of my newest fan fiction _Funeral Mute_, a commingling of my favourite musical and my favourite anime/manga centering around my favourite character from each respective work and inspired by chapters four through five of Charles Dickens's novel _Oliver Twist. _Movie-verse/ predominately first anime-verse. As always, characters belong to their respective creators. Enjoy.

**Funeral Mute**

Chapter the First

_i_

Her screams had ceased to ricochet against the stone walls. The blood had ceased to flow and was now congealing in sticky red clumps on the cold floor. The boy's hands shook and he dropped the blood stained silver straight razor on the floor. It hit the ground with a loud clatter, the sound bounced around the walls much like her screaming, then died away.

Like the hero in some faerie tale he had slain the demon, but at what cost? He had lost the damsel in the bargain. There would be no cottage by the sea. There would be no happy ending. His castle in the air was now no more than a pile of ashes. Everything he had cherished had vanished like a dream in the first moments of waking.

He took a few tentative steps towards the oven and pulled the heavy door open. A blast of hot air hit his face along with the smell of burnt flesh. Her charred skull still with a few pieces of papery, blackened skin clinging to it was turned towards him. Her vacant eye sockets stared blankly up at him. All the demon in hell were screaming.

He slammed the door shut with a loud bang to try to shut it all out, but the voices and the smell still wormed through. He quickly backed away, mindful not to trip over any of the numerous scattered corpses, and then ran up the steps and out of the bake house. He slammed the heavy door behind him and cautiously walked into the parlour. This place of warmth and happiness was now as cold and dismal as a tomb. He picked up a well-loved picture of her and tears began to well up in his eyes. First they were tears of sorrow, but they then turned to those of anger, not against her but himself. He slammed the picture against the mantle and the glass in the frame shattered. A series of loud shrieks erupted from the basement. Without a second thought he ran pell-mell out of the shop and into the dark, empty street trying to get as far away from that place of death as he could.

_ii_

The black clouds which hung over the city were just beginning to turn dull grey as morning was breaking. The boy sat shivering and out of breath in a dingy alley way. He had spent that night and into the early hours of the morning running as fast as he could from Fleet Street, taking back alleys and keeping away from major road ways. He ran until his lungs ached. Now that he had given himself a chance to rest, he could finally gather his thoughts. He wondered if the police had shown up at the shop yet. If they had already found the bodies. If they suspected him. If they were looking for him now. The thought of being arrested and sent to the gallows gnawed at him. It was not his own execution that frightened him the most, but rather the thought of where he was headed afterwards. If there are demons, he reasoned, then there must be a Hell, and that the Fates had decreed that he was to join them. He felt that God had forsaken him, just as others had done before.

Even though he had done the world a justice by ridding it of a murderer, he had still let the one person who meant the entire world to him perish; and he would never, ever forgive himself for that. Yes, as much as he didn't want to admit it, she had a hand in the diabolical deeds, but that did not mean that she deserved to die. Or did it?

All of these thoughts were too much for him to take in at that moment. He picked up a broken piece of cobblestone that had dislodged from the road and threw it as hard as he could across the alley. It hit a rubbish bin with a loud band which sent a whole nest of rats scurrying away squeaking. Fearing that someone might have heard this commotion, he sprang to his feet and ran out of the alley.

_iii_

He spent that day as well as the two subsequent ones roaming the back alleys of London. In that time he had neither slept not eaten anything. He had no money on his person and did not want to risk the chance of bringing attention to himself by stealing. A few times he had curled up on the ground in a vain attempt to get even a few minutes of repose, but every time he would being to slip into unconsciousness the nightmarish scenes from that night would play before him, making him sit up with a gasp. He felt staying awake and on the move was the better option for him anyway, just in case the authorities were indeed looking for him.

On this third day he kept getting a feeling as if he was being followed. Every time he turned around he was almost positive that he saw a dark figure dart past. It may have been his own imagination commingled with extreme exhaustion, but he was positive that someone was following him. As the morning wore on his anxiety became more acute. His heart was beating frantically to the point where he felt it would rip right out of his chest. He could take it no longer. He had to get away from who ever or what ever was following him. He began running down the various alleys making sharp, erratic turns in order to confuse his pursuer, genuine or contrived. In his panic he did not pay attention to where he was going and tripped over some object in his path. He fell to the ground hard and in the process smashed his head against a cobblestone which had become dislodged from the road. The blow knocked him unconscious.

_iv_

Undertaker was having a particularly slow day at the funeral parlour. Despite the cold front that had moved in there was a lack of decedents as a result. He knew they would come in eventually, as they always did, but today just was not the day. The two guests that had come to him that day had both died of natural causes and were brought to him only a few hours after death had occurred, which meant that they warranted no special embalming or restorative methods. He had set both of their features and completed the embalming in no time at all, leaving his schedule for the rest of the day completely void.

Later in the afternoon as evening was approaching he decided to take a stroll about the city. The sky was filled with dense, dark clouds and a cold drizzle of rain was falling at intervals, the reminisce of a rain shower earlier that afternoon. The silver-haired mortician did not mind this type of weather at all, in fact he rather enjoyed it. The dismal weather meant that there would be few people on the street which allowed him the peace to lose himself in his thoughts. As he turned down a back alley he spotted something laying in the middle of the street. On closer examination he discovered that it was a body laying face down. He gently turned the body over and found that it was a boy no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. His clothes were dirty and disheveled and damp from the earlier rain shower. His dark hair was matted with blood around his right temple. There was no colour in his face and his eyes and cheeks were sunken in. The body was ice-cold. He quickly checked the boy's pulse and felt nothing. The flexibility still in the boy's limbs meant that he had not been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. Undertaker giggled gleefully at the prospect of a new client. He scooped the dead boy into his arms and carried him off it his shop.

When he had gotten back to the shop he brought the body into the embalming room at the back of the parlour and placed him on the porcelain table in the center of the room. Before continuing any further he brought out a large leather-bound black book, his Record of Bodies and Effects. He emptied the boy's pockets and found nothing. From the boy's appearance Undertaker assumed that the boy was nothing more than an orphaned street urchin with no one to identify him or claim his body. He wrote at the top of the page in his log book "Unidentified". After disrobing the corpse and documenting the clothing he began to examine the body itself. He started first with the hands.

"You can tell so much about a person from their hands." the mortician commented to himself out loud and punctuated the sentence with a short chuckle.

There was dirt under the nails and an array of old scars crisscrossing the knuckles. The palms were severely calloused.

"You were a hard worker, weren't you, boy? Well, I suppose you'll be able to rest easy now. Hehe~"

Just as Undertaker was turning to document his findings in his book, he heard a faint moan emit from the corpse. He was used to hearing strange noises come from decaying corpses caused by the gases escaping the body, but this body looked to be very fresh. He looked intently at the body on the table and waited to see if it did anything more or if the sound was just from his imagination. A few moments later the body made the same noise again. Undertaker raised an eyebrow. He placed his ear against the boy's chest and listened. He heard the faint sound of breathing. He checked the boy's pulse again and felt the faint, slow beating of his heart. A bit to Undertaker's chagrin this newest guest was indeed still alive, if only barely.

_v_

The boy's eyes slowly flickered open. He drifted in the uneasy limbo between sleeping and waking a few moments before his eyes could properly focus. Leaning over him was a tall man in black robes with long silver hair that covered most of his face. A black top hat was perched atop his head and he was smiling from ear to ear.

"Goooood morning~! I see that you're finally awake."

The boy's brown eyes widened and he quickly sat up. A sharp pain shot through his temple. He held his hand to his head and grimaced.

"Easy there, boy." the Undertaker cautioned. "You've got quite the lump on your head. When I found you, you were out cold. I _thought_ you were dead, but clearly you are not. What a pity, though, you would have made such a pretty corpse."

The boy gave him a questionable look. "W-who are you? W-where am I?" he asked.

The man's smile widened. "I am the Undertaker." he said with a bow. "And this," here he gestured with a wave of his arm "is my humble funeral parlour."

The boy looked around his surroundings for the first time. To his left was the hearth with a fire lit. Across the room was another settee, curiously shaped like a coffin and next to it an over-stuffed chair. While he was looking about the room, Undertaker had snatched what looked to be an urn from one of the end tables. He opened the lid, took out a bone-shaped funeral biscuit, and popped it into his mouth.

"Would you like one~?" he asked and shoved the cremation-urn-turned-cookie-jar under the boy's nose . Thinking it impolite to refuse, he hesitantly took one of the biscuits out of the jar. He sniffed it. It smelled pleasantly of cinnamon. His stomach rumbled. He looked from the biscuit to Undertaker and back, then took a bit out of the biscuit. He found it to be quite good.

"Good, aren't they?" the mortician commented. "You'd probably like some tea, wouldn't you?"

Before the boy had a chance to answer, the silver-haired man had disappeared from the room. In his absence the boy had an opportunity to get a better look at the room he was in. The walls were done in a dark-hued wallpaper that begun to peel in some places. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. On the dusty mantle piece a human skull sat between two vases that held long-dead lilies. Several large, leather-bound books were stacked haphazardly on an end table next to the over-stuffed chair. The macabre decorum disconcerted him slightly.

Several minutes later Undertaker returned with two steaming beakers full of tea. He handed one of the beakers to the boy and then sat down on the over-stuffed chair with his own beaker. The boy stared into the dark liquid in the beaker for a few moments.

"Go on now, take a drink. It's not poisoned I promise." The man said with a chuckle. The boy finally took a drink.

Even though he had been awake for only a short amount of time the boy felt exhausted. The warmth from the fire-place and the warm, slightly sweet tea were making him even more drowsy and he drifted back off to sleep.


	2. Chapter the Second

******A/N:** Hello and welcome to the installment the second of_ Funeral Mute. _I hope that you enjoy.

**Funeral Mute**

Chapter the Second

_i_

The next morning the boy awoke from a dreamless sleep to find that Undertaker prepared breakfast for him. The boy was all too happy to consume it, but only after first looking it over carefully first. The boy was grateful to the mortician for his hospitality, but he had learned not to be too swift in trusting other or the food they offered. Undertaker found the boy's timid behaviour more or less amusing.

Just as he had finished eating, Undertaker returned to the parlour and plopped down on the coffin-shaped settee across the room, urn of funeral biscuits in hand.

"You still haven't told me your name yet, boy."

The boy's head snapped up at the statement. Indeed he had forgotten something as simple as stating his name. Perhaps, he thought, the injury he had sustained to his head was wore than he imagined.

"Oh, I'm sorry. The name's Tobias. Tobias Ragg, sir."

"Hmm, Tobias." the Undertaker mused. "And where are you from?"

"Fleet Street, sir."

"Any family?"

He paused a moment. "No, sir."

"Ah, I figured as much." He took a thoughtful bite out of a biscuit. "What were you doing before I chanced upon you, might I ask~?"

He paused again. "I used to work for Mrs. Lovett in her pie shop on Fleet Street."

"And…" the mortician coaxed. He knew that there must be more to the story than just that.

The boy sighed and lowered his head. A dark cloud had passed over his features. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"Of course. I perfectly understand." the silver-haired man replied. "I suppose we all have things that are better left unspoken."

Tobias lifted his head and nodded.

Undertaker polished off the biscuit he was eating in a single bite. He sat the urn down on the table next to him and stood up.

"I guess I better get back to work. Those bodies aren't going to embalm themselves. Hehe~" he said and bounded out of the room.

_ii_

Over the next few days Tobias had begun to gain some of his strength back and had begun to feel slightly less dismal than he had before.

Undertaker had just finished replacing the bandages covering the wound on the boy's head. He had tried to strike up a conversation with the boy, as he had attempted to every day, but the boy was only slightly more talkative than one of Undertaker's clients. Each question that was asked was answered with the same simple "Yes, sir." or "No, sir."

Having applied the last of the bandages and finding that the boy was still in no mood to even discuss something as trivial as the weather, the silver-haired mortician got up to attend to the day's business. Just as he was about to walk out the door of the parlour Tobias stood up from the settee.

"Undertaker?"

Undertaker spun around "Yeeeesss~"

The boy ran his fingers nervously through his short brown hair. "I-I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me. And-and I was just wondering if there is any way I could pay you back for your kindness."

The Undertaker placed one boney, black nailed finger against his chin in a thoughtful manner. "Weeeell," he began, a large smile spreading across his face. "There _is _something you could do~" He leaned forward, leaving only a few inches between his face and the boy's. "Give me a first rate laugh!"

Tobias took a step back and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Tell me a joke!" Undertaker said, grinning manically.

"A joke?"

Tobias had seen his fair share of crazy people, but the man standing before him was a breed all his own. Out of all the things he could have asked for in return he asked to be told a _joke_.

The boy's face fell. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I know any jokes."

"You don't know any jokes!" Undertaker shouted, his voice expressing a mix of shock and outrage. "How can you not know any jokes? You must know at least _one_."

Tobias stood silent for a few moments and thought. He shook his head. "I can't think of any."

The mortician frowned. "How dull…Hmm, well, I suppose I'll just have to send you back onto the streets."

The boy's heart dropped. "Please, there must be something I can do! Please!" he cried. "I'll do anything! Please, don't send me out. Please." Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.

"Hmm…" the man pondered, tapping his fingers on his chin. "I guess I could have you help me out in the funeral parlour. This job can get rather lonely at times."

The boy's face lit up. "Thank you, sir!"

Undertaker chuckled. "Come on, since you are going to be working for me now let me give you the grand tour of my humble funeral parlour.

Tobias followed him out the parlour door and into a dark hallway. They turned left and came to the end of the hall. Undertaker opened the door. "This is the front room." He said with a sweep of his arm.

Numerous coffins of various sizes and styles lay about the room and some were leaning against the walls. Behind the counter was a large set of shelves filled with urns of every size, style, and shape and the topmost shelves and books on the bottom most. On the dusty counter itself were several books, an open urn of funeral biscuits, and a wet preserved heart in a glass jar. Against another wall was another smaller set of shelves on which various urns and books sat upon. Human skulls as well as various other pieces of macabre decorum sat upon shelves and end tables. A chandelier made of bones hung from the ceiling.

Before Tobias got a chance to take it all in, Undertaker was already on his way down the hall again. He quickly spun around and followed after him. Undertaker opened another door.

"This is my workshop were I make all of my custom coffins." A partially finished coffin sat atop a work bench along with several wood working tools. Wood shavings and bits of black, white, and burgundy coloured cloth were strewn around the floor.

"You'll have to try out one of coffins for yourself sometime. They are quite comfortable, if I do say so myself. Hehe~" Undertaker remarked, smiling at the boy. Tobias simply gave a weak smile and nodded. The thought of laying in a coffin while still breathing made him feel slightly unsettled, but he didn't want to seem rude and reject the offer.

Undertaker closed the door to the workshop and turned around to open another door. "This is the kitchen." There was a flour dusted counter and a small oven. A mixing bowl and spoon along with a cookie tray lay on the counter, just waiting for the next batch of funeral biscuits to be made.

He turned back around and opened yet another door. As soon as he opened the door the strong smell of chemicals assaulted Tobias's nose. In the middle of a white-walled room was a white porcelain table. On the far wall was a sink and cupboards lined the walls.

"This is the embalming room. My favourite room~"

He opened up one of the cupboards. "This is where I keep the embalming fluid." he said and gestured to the neat rows of bottles. He opened another cupboard. "Here is were all the cosmetics are kept… and here is where I keep the rest of the embalming supplies." He closed the cupboards and walked over to the far end of the room were he knelt to the floor. Near were the floor meet the wall was a small handle. He lifted the handle and up came part of the floor. Tobias took a few hesitant steps forwards and peered into the black abyss.

"Here is the trap door that leads to the basement were my guests wait until I get a chance to pretty them up. Hehe~ This is a little idea of my own. See, I bring them up from the cellar through this door by means of a pulley system, instead of carrying them up the steps. Now, let me show you the basement."

He closed the trap door and stoop up. Tobias followed him out of the embalming room and down the hall to the far end. Undertaker took a candle out of one of the sconces on the wall and opened the door. He held the candle out in front of him and made his way down the steps with Tobias following close behind. When the reached the bottom of the rickety steps Tobias shivered. The basement was absolutely freezing. It took his eyes a few seconds to grow accustom to the gloom, but when they finally did he found one wall of the expansive room was completely covered with shelves full of wet preserved specimens. The other two walls were covered with drawers, each with its own number on a small brass plaque. Undertaker pulled open drawer number nineteen. Tobias knees buckled. Laying on the shelf was a form covered in a white sheet. He took a few hesitant, shaky steps forward. Two alabaster feet were poking out from under the sheet. Undertaker picked up the toe tag and glanced at it. "John Snow, 35, cause of death: drowning. He came to me yesterday. His funeral isn't until the end of the week and I just haven't gotten the chance to embalm him"

Tobias was bracing himself for him to lift the sheet, but instead Undertaker carefully shut the drawer.

"The cold keeps them fresher longer." the mortician explained. "In case there is any circumstance in which the deceased cannot be embalmed right away or if for any reason the family does not want their loved one to be embalmed, I keep them down here to rest. I can keep up to twenty guests here, should I get overly busy. I can't keep them down here too long, though. The cold keeps the decomposition at bay for a time, but eventually things start to 'go south', and we can't have that, now can we~"

Tobias quickly nodded.

"Now, time to show you the upper most floor." he announced.

Tobias was more than happy to leave the dingy, dismal cellar. When they had reached the top of the stairs and were back in the hallway Undertaker located another door. This door opened to another set of steps, but instead of leading downwards they lead upwards. The steps lead up to a narrow hallway done in faded floral wallpaper.

"Since you shall be residing here for a while now," Undertaker said with a smile. "Here will be your quarters." He pointed to one of the doors and gestured for the boy to open it.

"I don't think I've used this room since I bought the place, so it might be a bit dusty."

Tobias opened the door. A mass of stale, musty air hit his face. In the small room a small bed was pushed up against the right hand wall. The only other pieces of furniture were a small nightstand and a chest of drawers. A dingy window looked out onto the street.

"Any questions~?" the funeral director asked.

The boy shook his head. "No, sir, I don't think so."

"Very good. I have some business to attend to in town, so why don't you go tidy up the workshop for me to start off with."

"Yes, sir! Right away!" Tobias replied, eager to get started.

Undertaker chuckled. "Very good. I shouldn't be gone too long." He turned to go back down the steps, but quickly turned back around. "When I get back I expect for you to have thought of a good joke for me~" He added with a sly smile and then disappeared down the steps in a swish of black robes.

Tobias head down the steps and back to the hallway, trying to remember which door lead to the workshop. Luckily, he found it on the first try. He grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and began to sweep up the wood shavings and bits of cloth.

"_I expect you to have thought of a good joke for me~" _Undertaker had said. The words rang in the boy's head as he swept the bits of rubbish into a neat pile. He wanted desperately to earn his keep, but for the life of him he could not possibly think of anything funny. The thoughts that bounced around his mind were too dark, too melancholy to create anything comedic. The man was absolutely mad, but where else had the boy to go? If he were to leave he would either end up back at the workhouse or in prison waiting to be hung from the gallows; neither of the options appealed to him even in the least bit. He sighed and began stacking planks of wood neatly on the bench. He worked diligently to make the workshop as impeccable as possible so that Undertaker would be pleased.

He finished cleaning the workshop more quickly than he had anticipated. Undertaker had not yet returned, so in the meantime Tobias decided to clean up his bedroom. He walked back up the narrow stairwell and into this room. Bits of dust danced in the weak light coming from the dingy window. A thick layer of dusty had settled on the sparse furniture and spider webs hung in every corner. He took the rag he had found in the workshop out of his back pocket and began to dust off the chest of drawers. Within a minute he had kicked up enough dust to send him into a fit of sneezing and coughing.

After almost a half and hour of work, Tobias found the room to be now at least tolerable. He walked over to the window. He intended to open it to let in some fresh air into the musty room, but no matter how hard he tried he could not get the window open. He pushed and pulled as hard as he could, but the window would not open. The physical exertion left him slightly winded. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and looked out onto the street below him. Not a soul was on the street until a black-clad figure carrying a large stack of books came into view. Tobias ran down the steps and into the front room of the parlour and pulled open the door.

"Hello, lad~" Undertaker said.

"Do you need me to help you with those books?" Tobias asked.

Undertaker dropped the stack of books into the boy's arms. "Set them on the counter if you would, please. Just be very careful with them. They are very precious books."

He almost fell over from the sudden weight of the books, but managed to get them over to the counter without dropping them.

"Have you cleaned up the workshop yet?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

Undertaker walked out of the room to the back of the shop. Tobias followed behind. The mortician opened the door to the workshop.

"Hehe~ Veeery good, lad. Well done."

"Thank you, sir!" the boy said, beaming. He was very happy that Undertaker had approved of his work.

The two of them returned to the front of the funeral parlour. Undertaker took a seat in a chair behind the counter. Tobias stood before him.

Undertaker opened an urn of funeral biscuits and popped into his mouth.

"Now, do you have that joke for me~?"

The boy's face fell slightly. The entire time Undertaker had been absent he had not though of anything even remotely funny. He had hoped that he had forgotten about it. He stood quiet for a few moments until and idea popped into his head.

"'ow does the ocean great the beach?"

"How~?" the man asked as he placed his elbows on the counter and his chin in his hands.

"It waves!" the boy replied and hoped the funeral director would be amused.

Undertaker merely smiled and titled his head. "Weeeell, I suppose its better than nothing. I have to say, your cleaning skills are far better than your comedic ability.

Tobias frowned. That was the best he could think of.

"No need to look glum, lad. Undertaker said. "It's just something you're going to need to work on."

* * *

**A/N: **Comments? Questions? Concerns? Hugs? High-fives? Statements of utter disgust? Reviews are greatly appreciated. And while you are leaving a review, I ask you the reader, yes you, to do me a favour. If you have any ideas for jokes for me to use in this story that would be fabulous. Really the only jokes I can come up with are lame chemistry jokes, cheap gallows humour, or plain old snark, so any jokes you can think of and send my way would be great. Hey, your joke could end up in my story and that's mildly exciting. (Or not. Whatever.)


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